The meteor by Eleanor Wilner
was falling, and nothing could stop it.
The day was bright, but the shadow growing.
(Like the shadow of a great rock in a weary landů)
The whole history of human hope
a shambles, wrecked toys in a rubble of stone,
a cracked chalice, spilled wine, blood's
masquerade undone. Overhead, the meteor,
growing. What use a childish faith,
hosannas, Our Fathers; what use
the cradle of stars, that, in precession, slip
slowly into new constellations
as galaxies spiral and spin, eating back
their stray matter?
on a promontory, Earth, our little hatchery,
among the other, speechless forms of life,
we too grow mute before the burgeoning
shadow. While the mind arriving
at the end of its thoughts, their usefulness,
paces lonely in its cage of bone, like the sibyl
cursed to live on, century after century,
as the meteor approached, and she,
in grief, foreknowing its arrival
(Rock of Ages, comfort me...)
through so many years of false belief
filling the mass graves--as if death
could be mastered by serving it.
The slowly descending mass,
the long-awaited heaven lowering
itself (on earth as it is in heaven) --
the bloody altar stone our species has made
of its own habitation, set now, like a gemstone,
a solid darkness against the wheeling sky,
its fall toward Earth imperceptible, exceptfor the growing dark in which we live.
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